


Reassignment

by thewightknight



Series: Ridiculous Crossovers Nobody Asked For [12]
Category: Rampage (2018), The Losers (2010)
Genre: Fresh Start, cameo by jake jensen, the other government agency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 03:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16966764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: Franklin Clay gets an intriguing offer from an unremarkable man.





	Reassignment

**Author's Note:**

> And here I go again with a ridiculous crossover that nobody asked for. But for Jeffrey Dean Morgan, how could I not?

Here he was, in another backwater city, in another nameless dive bar. And here went another shot down the hatch.

Clay’s reflection stared down at him from the mirror above the bar and he grimaced. His current looks weren’t to blame on the quality of the mirror. He was tired, and worn down, and sick of it all. The others had settled back into their lives and Aisha had fucked off to who knew where and where had that left him?

He could have settled down. That thought drove a snort of laughter out of him, and he reached for the bottle again. He’d never known how to quit in his life, and he’d probably keep not quitting until it got him killed.

Movement caught his eye and he watched in the mirror as someone sat on a stool several down from him. His new neighbor was forgettable in a way that set him instantly on edge. The man was too bland, too unassuming. No one could be that harmless.

He wore a rumpled suit, off the rack, light brown. His hat matched. A spray of dull colored feathers peeked out from the dark band. His tie hung loose around his neck and the top button was undone, a nod to the heat. Fanning himself with his hat, he nodded at the bartender, who slid a bottle and a glass over to him.

“Huh. This is it?”

It took Clay a few minutes to realize the man was talking to him.

“You expecting a martini? Dry, with extra olives?” he snarled.

His voice surprised him, sounding harsh in his ears. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in a couple of days now, except for the occasional grunt to the bartender.

After pouring himself a shot, the stranger raised the glass, holding it up to the light that filtered through the filthy windows.

“Well, what’re you waiting for? Bottoms up!” Clay demonstrated, biting back his shudder as the raw alcohol burned its way down his throat. You’d’ve think he’d have gotten used to that by now.

The stranger raised the glass to his lips and Clay could see his nostrils flare.

“They strip the bar with this?”

Clay snorted. “Does it look like they clean here?”

“Okay, then. Here goes!” Tipping his head back, the other man swallowed the shot, then set the glass down on the bar. From his lack of reaction, he’d just had a sip of water. He was definitely not a tourist.

“So, who’re you with? CIA? FBI? NSA? Homeland Security? OICI?” When the man stared at him, the perfect picture of innocence, Clay scowled. “Gonna make me keep naming them off?”

“I could, but then you might get mad.”

He had a point, Clay was forced to admit. “Okay, who, then?”

“OGA.”

“OGA? What the fuck is that?”

“The Other Government Agency.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“’Fraid not. I’d show you a badge, or an ID, but they don’t give us one.”

“Figures. So, what brings you to this quiet little watering hole, Mr. …?”

 “Unfortunately, my name is Max. I hope you won’t hold it against me.”

“Depends on whether you’re here to try to kill me or not.”

“No, no, nothing like that. Just the opposite, really. I’m here to offer you a job.”

 

Two hours and two empty bottles later, Clay left the bar, heading for his seedy hotel. It wasn’t just the drink that was making his head spin.

Collapsing back on the lumpy mattress, he stared up at the ceiling and started to laugh.

 

He slept most of the next day. Towards dinnertime he got up and took as hot a shower as the plumbing in his fleabag hotel would give him. When he passed through the lobby, on his way out to rustle up something solid, the wizened old man at the counter waved him over.

“Mr. Clay! Mr. Clay! A man left this for you.”

The bulky envelope was sealed, and with no signs of tampering. If it had been this new Max that had left it for him, he’d dropped the unassuming act when he dropped it off. Tucking the envelope under one arm, he headed out into the street.

While he ate, he ignored the envelope, but once he’d finished, he pulled it out from where he’d wedged it under his leg. Tearing off the end, he peered inside.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he pulled out a black and white photo. “He wasn’t kidding.”

The envelope also contained a passport, a driver’s license, and a plane ticket, as well as a wad of the local currency and a packet of one hundred-dollar bills. He found a note tucked into the band, covering up Benjamin Franklin’s face.

_Want to know more? Get on that plane._

The flight was for the next morning. The passport and ID both had his picture, a nicely framed shot on a white background that almost made him look respectable. He had no idea how they'd taken it. They both were in the name Harvey Russell.

 

Six months later, after an assignment that got hairier than usual, he and Max clinked glasses over a not-so-seedy bar.

This time when Clay looked in the mirror, the face that looked back at him didn’t make him wince. After months of a steady salary and regular meals on his seemingly unlimited expense account, he felt almost as good as he looked. He even had health insurance, which covered things like therapeutic massage. That was a godsend, considering all the abuse he’d put his body to over the years.

His expense account had also covered the suits he wore in the line of work. When he’d asked about receipts and audits and the like, Max had shrugged and grinned.

“Nobody looks over our paperwork, Harvey.” He only called Clay that now, and Clay had grown to be okay with it. “If they look too hard at us, then they have to think about what we do, and they don’t want to do that. They want to exist in their nice little bubble, where their biggest worry is when the next shutdown might come along.”

Speaking of shutdowns, that hadn’t affected them in the slightest. His credit card had still worked, and when he had to make a call for backup, people still showed up.

He’d also asked Max about that.

“Seems it’d be pretty easy to abuse that kind of power.”

“Yeah, but the ones that get it into their heads to do so don’t last too long. You can’t get cocky in this kind of work. You usually end up squished.”

 

Another six months passed, and then a year. He cultivated a drawl, after watching Max use his to good effect. Something about a good ole southern drawl always seemed to put folks at ease when things were going to hell in a handbasket.

In the course of his work, he saw some things. Those things put a little more salt in his pepper, but they got handled.

He took the opposite route from his boss. While Max went out of his way to be unnoticeable, Harvey Russell was memorable. With his swagger and his overabundance of personality and his big shiny belt buckle, he charmed his way into and out of situations. Sometimes it was a distraction so Max could slip in and get done what needed to be done. Sometimes he just winked his way through things and got what they needed all by himself. Whichever way it went, it was good.

“No one will ever know what we do,” Max had cautioned him at the outset.

Well, nobody had ever known what he did before, either, unless they had an outrageous security clearance. And things were different here. Doing this job involved a lot fewer dead people. Sure, people still died, but not at his hands, and what he did kept the body count to a minimum.

They did a lot of containment and the OGA must have one hell of a media department. Most of the cases he handled barely made a blip in the news, and anything that got coverage was tucked away on a back page and got attributed to mundane causes.

 

One morning he got a call from Max.

“Hey, Harvey! You ready for a big one?”

Big. He'd thought he'd gotten used to Max's sense of humor.

He'd never admit to anyone that 'George of the Jungle’ got stuck in his head that week.

“There's no keeping a lid on this one, Max,” he said when he got his first glimpse of the flying wolf.”

After the dust settled, they recruited George, of course. And Davis and Kate too - the three of them came as a package deal.

One news agency caught a half second of his face in some of their coverage. It disappeared in a snap of Max's fingers. He still got a couple of calls.

One of them was from Jensen, who was still keeping his multiple eyes on things, after all this time.

“You up to something we should know about?” Jensen asked him. Clay could hear the familiar sounds of a game in the background.

“Nah. I'm good.” He was, too. Better than he'd been in years.

It must have shown in his voice, because Jensen didn't press him any further. “Hey, you should come watch a game sometime. For old times’ sake, you know? They’re gonna make the finals again this year!”

Clay promised to check the schedule.

“Great! We can make it a reunion!”

 

The weird things of the world cooperated and he did manage to show up for their last game. He hadn’t told Jensen he was coming, so it was just the two of them. It felt good, to sit in the stands and drink a cold soda. It felt … normal.

His eyes passed over Max at least twice before Clay registered his presence. In a t-shirt and jeans and a baseball cap, he was even more unremarkable than normal. When he caught Clay staring, he tipped the brim and winked.

Since Max didn’t look worried, Clay turned his attention back to the game.

The Petunias won by a mile. Jensen’s niece was the high scorer. He scooped her up on his shoulders and did a lap around the field, with her reaching down to high five everyone they passed. When they were halfway through, Max slid into the empty seat on the bleachers next to him.

“What’s up, boss?”

“Think something’s brewing, but it’ll be a day or so before I know for sure. You should go onto that barbecue.”

Jensen had invited him along to the family celebration and he’d put off answering yes or now. How Max knew these things, he’d given up trying to figure out.

“It’s okay to have people in this job, you know. We see some crazy things. Good to keep grounded, and remember why we do it.” Rising, Max settled the cap on his head, then nodded down at Clay. “I’ll call you when I know what’s up. Go spend time with your friend.”

Jensen was barely winded when he finished his circuit. He flopped down next to Clay, still grinning from ear to ear.

“So, you got steaks at this barbecue of yours?”

“Hell, yeah. Beer too. You coming?”

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

Who knew what tomorrow would bring, after all? Might as well take Max’s advice. Enjoy the normal while he could. Because he never knew anymore, when things were going to get really weird.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you want to say hi, [check out my profile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/profile) for where I’m currently hanging out on this here internet thing.


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